Mischief Managed
by Eponymous Rose
Summary: York comes to Connie with a devious scheme. This can't possibly bode well for anyone involved.


"This is a terrible idea," Connie said. "I can tell already."

York grinned. "'Course it's a terrible idea. I'm the one who came up with it."

He did look a little forlorn, though, so Connie sighed and extended her hand. Solemnly, he pulled a small tube from his pocket and presented it to her with a flourish. She squinted at the label. "This what I think it is? Because I don't especially want to be the one to explain to Carolina why you've been shredded into your component atoms."

He blinked at her a moment, then blanched when he caught on. "Of course not! I don't want to _murder _it. Just.. y'know. Spruce it up a little."

"Mm," Connie said, and turned the tube over and over in her hands. "Why me?"

He shrugged. "Why not? He likes you, Connie. Won't be suspicious if you're poking around his stuff. Me, maybe not so much."

She rolled her eyes. "Can't possibly imagine why. Okay, I think I can pull it off, maybe sneak it into his locker instead of the usual stuff he uses. One condition."

He gave an exaggerated bow. "Your wish is my command."

Crossing her arms, she leaned back against the wall, still fiddling with the tube in her hands. "Just a wild guess, here-you know how to short-sheet a bed, don't you?"

He put on the single most unconvincingly innocent expression she'd ever seen in her life. "Who, me? That sounds like the product of a woefully misspent youth. Which I certainly did not have."

"Uh-huh. Well, South's been getting on my nerves lately-"

The act melted away instantly, to be replaced with an expression of utter determination. "Ah, see, I can make an exception for South."

Connie stared at him for a second, then burst out laughing. "Holy crap, I forgot about the time she-"

"Yeah."

"And you were-"

"Yep."

"While we were all-"

"Yeah, just keep bringing that up. Never gets old."

"-_and _the Director walked in on you." Connie had to catch her breath, waiting for the spasms of laughter to subside. "Jesus, York. I would've come to you sooner if I'd remembered that."

Now he was the one standing with crossed arms, looking distinctly miffed. "Been waiting for payback," he said, which would have been appropriately dramatic, except that he'd pitched his voice about an octave lower than usual and just sounded ridiculous instead.

"It's settled, then," Connie said, and extended her hand.

York shook it, his solemn only-revenge-can-sate-me expression melting away in a sunny grin. "I'll come by later this evening to help with the sheets," he said, and waited until she was nearly out of earshot to add, "Hey, you know, there are easier ways to make sure South doesn't want to sleep in her own bed at night. Just putting that out there."

Connie opened her mouth to retort, but her cheeks were flushing, and she only managed to bite out a halfhearted "Fuck you, York," before he'd rounded the corner. For someone who acted like such a dork, he was weirdly perceptive sometimes.

The following morning, a small commotion emerged around the men's locker room, where Florida and Wyoming had just finished training. Connie arranged it so she was strolling by at the precise moment Wyoming slammed the locker-room door open, staring around in a sort of anguished rage.

She knew what to expect, but the sight of that magnificent mustached dyed a fluorescent pink was more than her brain could take, and she short-circuited mid-quip, staring blankly.

"I think it looks great!" Florida called from behind him, and Wyoming whirled, murder in his eyes. "Oh, I had no part in it, sadly, but I commend the person responsible. We could always use a little more cheery brightness in this group!"

Wyoming whirled back around to face Connie. "_Who?_"

"Uh," said Connie.

"I thought so," Wyoming boomed, and pushed past her. She trailed him as he slammed open the door to York's quarters, hung just far enough back to hear York's yelps and protestations of innocence and, somewhat contradictorily, repeated assurances that the dyed mustache wax would wash out the next time Wyoming took a shower.

Wyoming stormed out again, snorting a greeting at Connie on his way past. Connie peered around the doorframe to see York panting for breath, his shirt rumpled like it had just been clutched by someone in a facial-hair-induced rage. "Worth it?" she asked.

"Totally worth it," he gasped, flopping back on his bunk. "That memory will last me a lifetime." He half-raised his head. "You? I didn't hear any yelling last night. Did we screw up the short-sheeting?"

"Oh, no," Connie said, aiming for 'suave and mysterious' and probably falling a little short of the mark. "Worked like a charm. South was _immensely_ frustrated. I helped her... relieve some of that frustration."

"Oh?" York paused, then said, "_Oh_. Worth it, then."

"Totally worth it." Connie smiled, rapped her knuckles against his door. "Next time he's gonna drag this thing off its hinges. I'm looking forward to watching that."

York grinned. "Next time I know who to call as my accomplice. Thanks, Connie."

"Anytime," she said.


End file.
